


Never Tear Us Apart

by serein



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, Football | Soccer, German National Team, Hurt/Comfort, INXS - Freeform, Inspired by Music, M/M, Never Tear Us Apart, One Shot, Short One Shot, Slight Alternate Universe, Symbolism, Train Station, paloma faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mario and Marco separate at the train station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Tear Us Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainBlood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainBlood/gifts).



> A request for the far more lovely [CaptainBlood](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainBlood). She wrote me a beautiful little thing called [Welcome to the Family](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2711327). This is my little response - I apologize, darling, for its shortened state; I found the longer version I wrote originally extraneous; so I rewrote it completely in a shortened version.  
> I hope you, and all of my other readers, enjoy.
> 
> The backing track to this is INXS' [Never Tear Us Apart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyZU4iNRdsM). Try Paloma Faith's [version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCYtesyE7OA) if you wanted a more rosy, cinematic version. I personally prefer the latter.
> 
> -Leon

* * *

The train's leaving.  
It's leaving, and not coming back.  
It's leaving, and Marco's on it, and it's not coming back.  
Because that's not how a train ticket works.  
It goes one way.  
You either buy another ticket, or you don't come back.  
And Marco was not going to buy another ticket.  
I know that.  
I know that, and there's nothing I can do about knowing it or seeing it or feeling it.  
Marco and I were done.  
Forever, and ever, and ever.  
Because life isn't the fairy tale we make of it, that dream in a midsummer night, that intricate tapestry of hopes and fates.  
It's isn't this perfect fantasy of bliss and beauty.  
There's got to be a dirty, ugly, dark side to everything light and beautiful.  
I don't know what to feel, as he's leaving.  
The train's whistle is blowing, even though they don't need it. I guess it's just for some symbolic meaning, or some kind of a tradition. Kind of like the coffee shop tradition that Marco and I had; every morning at 6:30 am sharp, he would walk down the six flights of stairs to go get us a pair of mochas, whether we were happy or sad or mad or on the verge of break-up.  
And now - now he and I were finally done.  
No more mochas at 6:30.  
No more bedside kisses and desperate clinging.  
No more bad chick-flicks together.  
Six years.  
You would think that after six years, you would fall so deeply in love with a person that in that final hour, minute, second with them - you'd be falling apart, falling to irreparable shards of unrequited feelings, falling into a chaotic mess of failure and tears and bad hair.  
But there isn't that.  
All I can feel is this farrago of a bit of regret, a slight tinge of melancholy, and an overbearing amount of nostalgia.  
Because all I can think about is him, and I.  
Nobody else.  
No Robert, no Mesut, no Erik.  
Just...Marco.  
Marco and I.  
Marco, handsome, slick, fashionable Marco.  
I, pathetic, chubby cheeked, pretzel-obsessed Mario.  
I only wish that he loved me a little more.  
I don't know what that's called.  
It's not guilt, or hope.  
Maybe wistfulness, but I'm not trying to be particularly sage or thoughtful.  
I'm just...wishing.  
Maybe if he loved me a little more, he wouldn't be on the train pulling away.  
The smoke is puff-puff-puffing out into the cold, sub-zero air. I absentmindedly play with the laces on the grey scarf I'm wearing, and I suck in a breath as the train picks up speed.  
All of the sudden, I'm leaping up off my bench, and running, running, running with the train, the train with my most beloved Marco on it.  
All of the sudden, I'm running, and crying, and wanting him back as much as I wanted him to go. I'm imagining that he's looking out the window at me, watching me run after him hopelessly, run after him foolishly. I'm imagining that he's looking out at me and wishing he could jump off that stupid train to come right back to me.  
But he knows that would never work, and I know that it would never work-not now, not ever.  
He hurt me so much. But for a second, right there, I'm-I'm the pathetic state I don't want to be, that mess of a person falling apart, that mess of a person being torn apart from his one and only.  
And right then and there, I wanted him back. I wanted him back so badly that I wish I could jump onto the train and hold it tight and go along with him to Berlin, and not ever come back to the life I have now.  
But I can't do that.  
Because I love Marco so damn much that I'm setting him free, like a bird.  
And even though I know he's not coming back, I know that he loves me, too.  
And this is best for both of us.  
Perhaps there'll exist a little piece of him in me, and me in him - a piece that will always say that nothing, nothing would ever tear us apart.  
Even if he's leaving now.  
The blunt truth of it all stops my feet before the platform also ends, and I'm sobbing hysterically.  
I watch the train disappear into an unrecognizable oblivion, and I find myself as the last one on the platform. The supervising staff lets me stay there in the empty, silent, abandoned terminal all by myself for about fifteen minutes.  
I think about him.  
I think about his beautiful face, and his beautiful hands, and his beautiful body, and his beautiful, beautiful soul.  
And then - I pull my hat over my ears, push through a couple of sets of glass doors, and leave the train station without looking back.  


**Author's Note:**

> I think this is absolutely unworthy of you, Captain-yet I wrote it. And I guess I'm posting it now. I'm sorry if it didn't meet your standards; it certainly doesn't meet mine. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it-even if I thought it wasn't very good.
> 
> -Leon


End file.
